


we can never go home.

by LoudShrugging



Series: the dead (don't) stop dreaming [1]
Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Continuation, Family, Fantasy, Friendship, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Canon, magic mafia, not Mochida bashing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2020-12-31 07:47:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21119864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoudShrugging/pseuds/LoudShrugging
Summary: “I think it’s time, No Good Tsuna,” Reborn’s grim countenance silences the protest building on his lips, “That you learn what Vongola really does.”Or: the canon expansion no one ever asked for.txt





	1. Chapter 1

The Ninth passes not with a bang but with a soft sigh, slipping away in his sleep with his household none the wiser. The news pulls Tsuna out of class and he’s immediately grim, intuition thrumming with unease before he even knows what’s happening.

His father is waiting for him in the office; that’s the first sign that something is very, very wrong (because what else can drag the wayward man home but business, he thinks bitterly).

A woman behind the counter gives him a sympathetic look. She looks like she has something to say but Iemitsu is stepping forward and all eyes fall on him.

“Your grandpa’s gone,” he says plainly, an unusual seriousness falling over his features.

Tsuna isn’t sure what to do, always at a loss when it comes to actually dealing with his father instead of just shrugging off flippant remarks. And Nono? This changes things for sure.

Somewhere between denying his inheritance and fighting yet another battle for the Vongola, they’d come to the agreement that he would be allowed to continue his civilian life (with tutoring from Reborn, of course) until he graduated from high school. Until then, Nono would hold the fort down; but as soon as Tsuna walked the walk, he and his guardians were getting shipped to Italy for a future in crime. No protests were enough to change the trajectory of his life.

He’s not sure whether he should cry from sadness or cry from despair. While he and Nono were never especially close, any modicum of respect Tsuna held for the man melted away over the years as he was pushed harder and harder towards a destiny he never wanted. The whole reason they were on each other’s radars to begin with was because Timoteo needed a heir from the Vongola bloodline.

“I’m… sorry?” he finally replies after an awkward silence, mentally kicking himself for phrasing that more like a question than a statement. Reborn’s going to get on his case later about mafia bosses and eloquence and that’s honestly the saddest thing about this whole encounter. The woman behind the counter gets a profoundly sad look on her face, as if she could feel the weight of his grief. The longer he looks at her, the more Tsuna feels like laughing, but that’s not the appropriate response to news of your grandfather’s death.

Iemitsu blinks once, blinks twice; frown deepening on his face as if he can’t understand why anyone wouldn’t be crushed over the passing of a great man. He recovers quickly though. Leaning conversationally on the counter in a way that’s all Iemitsu, he levels a look at the clerk.

“I’m going to take him home.” The woman doesn’t offer any resistance but he’s continuing anyway, “Poor kid must be crushed. He might be missing a lot of class in the coming weeks —” Iemitsu reaches over the counter and snatches a pad of sticky notes— “You can send any homework of his to this address. Can’t have my boy falling behind.”

Tsuna allows himself to be led out of the office. His father is an irritating presence lurking in the hallway as he gathers his things. Though he’s sure his father and Reborn are already making plans, he passes Hayato a short note about Nono’s passing anyway, folded twenty different times so he’ll be off campus before Hayato has time to freak out and run after him. He’ll probably cry about being left behind; Takeshi and Ryouhei won’t like it one bit; and Tsuna will feel terrible about it, but it’s easier this way. He can’t lean so heavily on his guardians every time.

It’s not like it’s a permanent separation (and god, that thought makes them sound like their married to each other. Nope, nope, take it back brain. That’s way too weird).

His Storm will alert the rest of his guardians. None of them are particularly happy with the old man. It’s more of a heads up about what will absolutely turn into a sudden upheaval in their lives than anything resembling mourning.

Reborn’s waiting for them at the gate, looking just as grim as Iemitsu. It's still a little jarring somethings, seeing the man fully grown. Falling into step beside the hitman, Tsuna draws a small measure of comfort from the man. He can at least trust Reborn to somewhat have his best interests at heart.

He waits until they get into the car before he breaks the silence.

“I hope,” Tsuna starts slowly, feeling out each variable as if he weren’t afraid of retaliation. He jumps straight to business, tired of beating around the bush as old men are wont to do, “this doesn’t change our agreement.”

With the Ninth gone, the throne of Vongola is empty. He’s long since accepted that sooner or later, that seat will be filled by him. In the meantime, Tsuna is determined to put that off for as long as possible.

Reborn looks like he wants to protest, but he holds back knowing he owes Tsuna this at least.

His father, on the other hand, gets that calculating look on his face that Tsuna knows means he’s looking for loopholes. It’s more than a year until high school graduation, way too long to just leave the Vongola to their own devices, apparently.

“You can be the temporary boss,” Tsuna offers quickly, when the silence stretches on for too long.

“I can’t be boss; I gave that up when I became head of the CEDEF.”

“No one’s telling you to be Decimo,” Tsuna rolls his eyes. “Just a stand in until we graduate. Nono’s guardians are still alive and kicking.”

“I’ll consider it.”

Consider it faster, Tsuna wants to retort, but he holds himself back. Leaning against the window, he watches familiar scenery pass by as they merge onto the highway towards the airport.

Landing in Italy is a quiet affair. Another nondescript black car meets them on the tarmac. Everyone speaks a language Tsuna is only beginning to grasp. His guardians will be joining him shortly, he’s told, accommodations must be made first. All he hears is the clangor of loneliness, feels the eagerness of adults ready to pounce on an impressionable child.

Hah. They’re going to be disappointed. Resigned, he’s already starting to make plans; a fragile skeleton of a thing that will no doubt stumble and crumble before they manage to get it right. Alongside Reborn’s unending lessons — which somehow still fail to cover what he’s going to do as the head of an actual crime family — he’s been chatting with Hayato, infinitely glad that his future right hand has first hand experience on the ground with the inner workings of the underworld. Sick to his stomach that they’re barely 17 and already acquainted with criminals.

Tsuna suppresses a shudder a the thought. He’s been sheltered so far. Sure, he’s met his fair share of killers and lunatics, somehow all with a sort of moral code that still allow them to (somewhat) get along. The thought of meeting a band of killers worse than the Varia makes his blood run cold.

The car ride to the Vongola mansion is quiet. They pass through miles of big city and Italian countryside but Tsuna barely takes it all in. His heart is taking the bottom of his throat hostage, leaping into the airway and planting itself firmly there. His mind is too busy flying through possibilities to care about the his trachea is clenching, every part of his body thrumming in unison with the too-loud drumbeat of his heart.

For the first time, Tsuna regrets turning down Nono’s offers of summers in Italy. Now he’s walking into a lion’s den. Strangers receiving their new, foreign leader in the wake of their beloved boss’s passing, each of them armed and dangerous with no qualms about using force to pummel their opinions home. Lovely, wonderful, he’s so excited to be the object of their attentions.

Somehow, he’s finding more to despair about this than about the Inheritance Ceremony. Heads of other families, he could deal with. Worst case scenario, he dons his gloves and beats them into friendship. Not his first choice but Tsuna’s done it enough times now to rise (anxiously, fearfully) to the challenge. In the end, they each go back to their own lives.

But Vongola? People who are supposed to be future subordinates? Whose respect he’s supposed to garner? Who he’s supposed to lead as the second coming of Primo? Whose status quo he was planning on flipping over as soon as Iemitsu fully handed the reins over?

Terrifying.

What if they looked at him and only saw No Good Tsuna, who (still) trips over his own feet like it’s an Olympic sport? What if they didn’t want to acknowledge him as their boss; the world’s strongest famiglia thrown into chaos because it can’t accept a tiny Japanese kid as a heir.

(Then he and his guardians would be free. None of them would need to tangle with crime and the danger that plagued their middle school years becomes a distant memory. They could all go their separate ways, everyone else successful in their chosen fields instead of being hunted by the law. And Tsuna…)

Tsuna doesn’t realize he’s dancing on the edge of a panic attack until he feels a firm hand grip his shoulder. Jolting out of his thoughts, he smashes his head against the ceiling of the car. Suppressing the shriek that gathers in the back of his throat, he hisses in pain, automatically curling in on himself. Somewhere between the pain in his head and the knot in his throat, he heads Reborn heave a long suffering sigh.

“Mafia bosses don’t have panic attacks, No Good Tsuna.” 

Not in public, at least.

He bites his lip, not giving Reborn the satisfaction of an argument. There will be plenty of time for that later.

As expected, Tsuna is received with glass smiles. Most of the family speak only Italian with sprinklings of English here and there. He can barely keep up past pleasantries and introductions. Iemitsu and Reborn continue the conversation for him in rapid Italian while his head spins. He catches words here and there, smatterings of “_Decimo_” and nouns and verbs. It’s not his fault he’s not lingually gifted. Tsuna wishes Hayato was there, clenching his fists because he most definitely does not trust either man to convey everything to him at once.

The thing about being a fish tossed up on land is that everything becomes exceedingly real. The world comes into horrifying focus around him: behind every silk tapestry and garish antique is a history of power and blood. It’s all fun and games when you’re fighting for the greater good, but then reality hits and he remembers Vongola is built on blood money.

How many people had to suffer for the extravagance he’s currently surrounded by? No one’s ever really talked about where exactly all the wealth comes from, but he thinks he can guess. It’s not hard — one only has to turn on the news and observe the crises going on in the world to know.

Thankfully, he’s not left to brood for too long.

The sound of his name drags him out of his musings. Jerking at the foreign voice, he looks up to see a woman dressed in a maid’s uniform regarding him warily.

“This is Maria. She’s your guide and translator,” Reborn says at his questioning look. The maid gives him a deep bow, looking stiff, obviously not used to the gesture. “She’ll help you with your Italian.”

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, _Decimo_.”

There’s a slight hint of an accent in her Japanese. Tsuna exchanges pleasantries with what he hopes is a warm smile. According to his classmates, he looks borderline hysterical when interacting with strangers most of the time. It’s not his fault most strangers who approach him are weird.

Maria gets a strange glint in her eye, measuring him up as if seeing him for the first time. Tsuna tilts his head, trying to place it, and her eyes widen, lips twitching downward. He notices a slight tremble to her fingers.

_Nervous_, his intuition supplies.

“Is something wrong?” Tsuna tilts his head in confusion.

“N-no! Absolutely not!” The woman’s eyes grow wide as saucers, frown fully making its way onto her face. She quickly replaces it with a wide smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “I think we will get along wonderfully, _Decimo_.”

He tries his best to hold back his own frown, brown eyes moving from the woman to Reborn to his father. It must be Reborn, he decides. Tsuna would be nervous too if he weren’t already immune to Reborn’s bullshit. After all, there’s a reason he’s the world’s greatest hitman.

The rest of the day is a blur. Between meeting a small village worth of people, everyone stopping in the halls to bow and greet him; shown around the maze of the main mansion; and being given more condolences than he knew what to do with, Tsuna’s head is spinning by the end of the day. Maria deposits a dazed mafia-boss-to-be back in the enormous suite of rooms prepared for him. Tsuna makes his way to the unnecessarily big bed at a dead walk. He’s asleep before his head hits his pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi KHR fandom, you still alive? This is my first rodeo (and unbeta'd to boot) so sorry if the writing's rough and characterization is a disaster. Let me know how you feel about this on a scale from 1 to ten foot garbage fire :D


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nono's funeral happens on a cloudless February day.

He’s never seen an actual corpse before — there wasn’t anything left of Byakuran when the heat of his X Burner finally fizzled out. He’s seen his share of grisly field injuries, but somehow the cold body of Timoteo di Vongola is worse than those. 

Tsuna’s never seen anything look so much like a human being and so little at the same time. Put the body somewhere else and he could be sleeping. 

He feels a sharp nudge behind him from his father and swallows his disgust, approaching the open coffin, Hayato close behind him with a familiar gilded box. He bends his head when Tsuna turns to him, making a show of offering the object to his Boss. 

Mafiosi present at the botched Inheritance Ceremony would immediately recognize the small chest. It’s empty now, the small vial of blood returned to its rightful owners, but the symbolism is clear.

Taking it, he miraculously doesn’t stumble up the few short steps to the dais where Nono’s coffin rests.

_"Requiescat in pace, nonno,"_ Tsuna whispers. Despite his quiet tone, the acoustics carry his words throughout the room and he could see a few nods of approval in the corner of his eye. 

Behind him, Hayato tries his best to choke on his laughter quietly, knowing exactly where he picked up that particular phrase. Tsuna's nothing if not resourceful.

Touching Nono’s body is unpleasant, the once warm hand clammy and cold. Tsuna can feel his flames gather underneath the skin of his palm as if to protect against that iciness. Carefully, he pries open the clasped fingers to slide the box underneath them.

The room stirs as he steps back from the casket. 

Off to the side, his father presses his lips together in a hard line, displeased by his decision but letting him have it. 

Reborn’s in the back somewhere; Tsuna can see the hitman’s pleased smirk in his mind’s eye. The former arcobaleno had been Tsuna’s staunch supporter in sending this message. In the end, it was him who convinced Coyote to hand over the empty vessel that once contained Vongola’s Sin. 

Uneasy mafiosi look around the room, trying to gauge how others are taking his message. Others look offended; appalled that the uninaugurated, unknown _Decimo_ would make such a display at the funeral of his well loved predecessor. Cocky, they might be thinking, seeing a child up on the dais instead of a force to be reckoned with.

Tsuna ignores them, meeting the unwavering stares of his guardians. A familiar warmth encompass him, flames coming to heel just beneath his skin and he could feel their flames answer in like. There will be a coronation later, countless empty gestures, too many formal events — but those are all for show. The message is already sent: this is his Vongola now. 

The rest of Nono’s funeral is quiet and mostly uneventful. Countless people come out to watch the procession, flooding the streets in a sea of black. The streets fall eerily quiet when they pass by, all the gathered mafiosi dipping their heads in a sign of respect. Even civilians and tourists, who have no clue who is passing by, stop and stare. 

Riding with four of his guardians in a limo behind the hearse, Tsuna tries not to feel too exposed. He knows no one can see him past the tinted windows but he feels the force of their eyes anyway. It makes him twitchy and he thinks he might understand why Hayato chain smokes when he’s anxious now.

Tsuna’s not about to pick up a smoking habit (or let Hayato have his back, for that matter), but he wishes there were something to do other than sit and wait. He looks around him, brown eyes taking the time to rest on each sombre face. Everyone’s uncharacteristically quiet, has been since he received them at the airport three days prior. Even Takeshi looks pensive, staring absently out the window with one hand on his pendant.

None of them ever needed to be involved but each of them had risen to the challenge with gusto every time, an unshakable force behind him. Reborn is going to have some choice words for him if (when) he finds out Tsuna is trying to dismantle the web of protection around him.

“It’s not too late for you guys.” He shatters the silence, fighting the urge to curl in on himself as four pairs of eyes turn their attention on him. Tsuna had been trying to have this conversation with his guardians for years, but always balked, too cowardly to let go of his friends. Now is as good as ever, he figures, making a mental note to bring it up with Kyoya and Mukuro later.

Grim understanding lights up around him in the form of hard looks and frowns. Hayato inhales audibly next to him, whole body going still. Ryohei doesn’t immediately yell. 

“You don’t have to go down this road,” Tsuna continues after a moment. He turns to Takeshi first, “I know you’ve gotten a few baseball scholarship. You should follow your dreams, Takeshi.

“You’ve been no slouch either, Big Brother.” Ryohei’s next. “And you wouldn’t have to lie to Kyoko all the time anymore.” Or drag her into danger.

“Chrome.” Tsuna puts on his gentlest smile when she flinches. “You’ve been spending a lot of time at the vet clinic lately. I know Dr. Nagano is interested in helping you get into the field.”

“Tenth!” Words explode from Hayato’s mouth the moment Tsuna turns his attention to him. There isn’t enough room in the car for Hayato to prostrate himself, but he’s trying his hardest. Tsuna puts his hands on his shoulders to stop the bomber from lowering himself, cutting the Italian’s speech short. 

“I know you’ve been in the mafia your whole life, Hayato. But think about it. You could do anything you want with your life.” Tsuna looks around at all his friends, “You can all do anything you want with your life. I’m stuck but—” 

“No.” For a second, the razor sharp edge of Takeshi’s determination melts away his easygoing exterior. “If you’re in this then I’m in this. Besides,” Takeshi’s whole demeanor softens as laughter bubbles out of his lips, “The mafia game is a lot of fun. I’m not ready to stop playing yet.” 

“Yeah! We’re all in this to the extreme!” There’s not a hint of doubt in Ryohei’s eyes. Tsuna frowns. Of all his guardians, the thought Ryohei would let go the easiest.

“I would like to stay too,” Chrome chimes in. Her eye doesn't waver and Tsuna sighs, hands falling off Hayato’s shoulders so he can lean against him in defeat instead.

The bomber is surprisingly quiet in the wake of the others’ declarations. 

“You guys know that means you’re going to be criminals right? Once everything settles down, we’re going to do this mafia thing for real.” Seeing no hesitation from the young adults around him, he throws in as a last resort: “It’ll be dangerous! We might get hurt!” _And die_, he wants to say, but he can’t bring himself to.

“It’ll be Extreme!”

Even Tsuna has to chuckle at that. 

Ultimately, he does shed a few tears, looking appropriately despondent for a grandson who just lost his precious grandfather. 

And if those tears are mostly from boredom because the whole affair has been dragging on for the better part of a day, well, no one has to know. Tsuna doesn’t know when he’ll next be allowed to cry so he takes advantage of the opportunity to weep for himself, for his friends, for the future they’ll have to face. 

Chrome helpfully hands him a handkerchief. Tsuna dabs his eyes and blows his nose loudly into it. 

The priest misses a beat in his prayer while everyone else tries not to notice. Coyote Nougat, standing on the other side of the casket, gives Tsuna a look like he just killed all his puppies.

Standing next to him, Hayato looks conflicted, hands twitching instinctively for dynamite. He wants to fight whatever’s making Tsuna cry but holds back. Blowing up a corpse is never appropriate, especially when the body in question is Nono’s.

They’re surrounded by allies on all sides, a group bigger than Coyote would have liked but Iemitsu pushed hard to invite some bosses from recent alliances to the burial. An attempt to make them feel important, to secure support for Tsuna before he makes his first official foray into the underworld. 

He couldn’t care less.

In the corner of his eye, he sees a quiet figure fade into existence. Tsuna’s so used to the man’s loud antics, he has to do a double take.

Xanxus was notably absent from the proceedings. The old men scoffed when he didn’t show up to the few meetings for funeral arrangements; scowled and plotted quietly when the Varia’s vehicle was missing from the long motorcade. 

_Ungrateful, unfilial,_ they’d muttered. Words that hadn’t been in Tsuna’s vocabulary before now ingrained in his bones with a deep set exhaustion. It’s so easy to think the worst of someone when you’re on the outside looking in. While Tsuna can’t say they know each other terribly well — smatterings of murder attempts here, the rare bout of cooperation there — he knows they both have complicated relationships with their fathers. Tsuna doesn’t love his father, but that doesn’t stop him from caring. Likewise, Xanxus is rough around the edges, but he knows (hopes) the man’s heart isn’t frozen.

The assassin looks like he’d rather be anywhere else, but he lingers on the fringes of their gathering anyway. When the priest finally finishes, he shocks everyone by stepping up to the freshly dug grave, watching in sombre silence as the Ninth’s guardians lower him into his final resting place. 

Xanxus throws a single dark crimson rose into the grave and leaves as quietly as he came. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Dark crimson roses denote grief and sorrow.](https://www.teleflora.com/funeral-sympathy-collection/funeral-flowers-meaning)
> 
> \---
> 
> A little shorter than I wanted it to be, but it felt right ending it here. One (?) more chapter to go before I start acting like I know what a plot is and driving this baby into New Territory wah. Let me know what you guys think!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Palermo is a beautiful city with claws and teeth and a stomach that hungers for a snack.

“We’re so, so, _so_ screwed!” 

The two athletes with him haven’t caught on to their predicament yet, but Tsuna knows. He’s already imagining a life on the streets, being taken in by some exploitative factory owner to work long, grueling hours for a shabby room and keep. ‘Please, sir, I want some more,’ a downtrodden Tsuna would beg, only to be received by a crowd of empty faces all split in the same horrible sneer. 

_Explore Palermo,_ they said, _It’ll take your mind off things. It’s a beautiful city, full of history. Relax. Maybe you’ll pick up some Italian._

He’s real chill now. Absolutely over the moon about how they’re all going to die because the beautiful city of Palermo has claws and teeth and a stomach for which the four of them are only a small snack before the main course. 

Heads turn to look their way, everyone curious about the three foreign teenagers taking up sidewalk space outside of tourist season. 

This wouldn’t have happened if Hayato were here. Tsuna isn’t sure when they lost the bomber, just knows that he’d looked up and the man was gone. Hayato has his reasons, Tsuna’s sure. No matter what anyone thinks of the once-freelancer, he knows he wouldn’t leave the three of them hanging high and dry in a foreign city to be picked off like sheep, which means…

Oh god. What if something bad happened? The lack of explosions in the distance is promising, but visions of the surly teen slumped over beaten up in a dark alley play across his mind’s eye. The prospect makes his stomach twist. 

Tsuna’s going to get them all kid leashes so something like this never happens again.

“Don’t Extremely worry, little brother,” Ryohei wanders over from one of the market stalls to slap him on the back hard enough to make him stumble. Tsuna briefly pauses his racing thoughts to nurse his bitten tongue. “We’ll make it through like we always do!”

“We can’t fight our way out of everything!” 

But the boxer is already distracted, moving away to join Takeshi at another one of the street stalls. Tsuna watches money pass between them and the shop keeper and promptly continues panicking, remembering they need money in exchange for goods and services. 

He counts on his fingers how much fare they need get the three of them back to the mansion and compares it with how much remains in his wallet, not counting Takeshi and Ryohei’s allowances because their prodigious spending rates probably mean they’re close to having nothing by now.

Really, his father was awfully stingy about funding their little excursion. 

It’s funny how no matter how carefully he sums up all the numbers, Tsuna always comes up a few euros short. And that’s to say nothing of Hayato. The bomber might be native but Tsuna can’t just leave his friend behind. 

“Here, Tsuna,” Takeshi comes back with a entire octopus on a stick, making Tsuna’s eyes bug out. They have _three _of them. 

Tsuna helplessly receives the grinning swordsman’s gift. 

“How do you expect me to eat this?!” It doesn’t smell too bad (kind of delicious actually), but it’s still _whole. _He stares at the thing in his hands and it stares back at him with its blank dead fish eyes. Tsuna shudders.

“Never mind that, what are we going to do? We’re lost!”

Takeshi puts an arm across his shoulder; Tsuna feels himself sag under its weight. 

“I guess we can walk around until we find our way home,” the swordsman laughs. “Can’t be worse than running laps around Namimori.”

Tsuna groans and wishes he had half the mirth of his guardians. At this rate, it would be a surprise if he didn’t die of a stress by the time he hits thirty (if the mafia doesn’t get him first haha). 

“I’m Extremely for it!” Ryohei yells around a mouth full of octopus, somehow managing to devour the whole thing in one bite. Stunned, Tsuna numbly hands his treat over, glad it has somewhere to go, even if that somewhere was Ryohei’s bottomless pit of a stomach. 

“You idiots,” a familiar gruff voice snaps from behind them, “I can hear you from a mile away. You’re not supposed to be drawing attention to yourselves like this.” 

The silver haired teen nimbly sidesteps through the crowd towards them. There’s another light haired teen around their age trailing after Hayato with a stormy expression that could give the bomber a run for his money. 

Tsuna pays him little mind, too distracted by the reappearance of his Storm. This must be what people think when they claim they see angels, or maybe what Hayato sees when he looks at him. Tsuna could throw himself down on his knees right now and thank his saviour for his timely appearance. They’re saved, _they’re saved. _The terrible future he foresaw will never come to be.

Instead of resorting to dramatics, Tsuna sucks in a deep breath, letting relief settle in his lungs like a life vest, keeping him afloat in stormy seas.

The beauty of their reunion is ruined when Hayato struts up to him and bends in a stiff ninety degree bow. 

“I’m so sorry for disappearing like that, Tenth!” His volume is only a notch quieter than Ryohei’s. The suddenness of his actions draw more attention to them. 

Tsuna inwardly cringes, wondering why everyone around him is unhinged. What did he do to deserve this?

Shrugging off Takeshi’s arm before the bomber could switch to yelling at Takeshi, Tsuna leans forward and puts his hands on Hayato’s shoulders, pushing him upright into a standing position. Giving the silver haired teen a quick glance up and down, he notes with satisfaction that Hayato is sporting no injuries. 

“We can’t keep a low profile if you do that, please—” Tsuna shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot. He’s never going to get used to Hayato’s over-the-top displays.

Bright green eyes widen and Tsuna has to fight this time to keep the bomber from executing another dramatic apology. The urge to scream rises. 

The light haired kid that followed Hayato makes a disgusted noise, mumbling something in rapid Italian that Tsuna doesn’t catch. Judging from the way the bomber instantly bristles, it’s nothing nice. His middle school classmates’ voices fill his head with mocking remarks and Tsuna smiles derisively. 

This is nothing new. Four years and Tsuna is still nothing impressive to look at. Small and clumsy and still under performing. At first glance, everyone overlooks the bright fire burning under his skin. 

He’s reaching for Hayato’s arm, intending to pull the teen back when the stranger turns his attention to him. Tsuna doesn’t freeze under the force of that scathing gaze anymore, but he still hesitates to meet it straight on. 

_“This is the new Don Vongola?”_ he snorts in accented English. Hayato tries to cut him off with a fist to the face but he neatly dodges. _“You’re never going to last, fucker.”_

Tsuna blinks, taking several long seconds to parse through the language. Thankfully, he’s better at English than he is at Italian. When the meaning of the stranger’s words finally flashes across his mind, the image of Xanxus, ugly scowl scars spreading across his face, promising fire and brimstone pops into his head and Tsuna fights the urge to laugh. This feels so juvenile compared to facing the scarred assassin.

It’s clearly meant to be a warning — or a threat, depending on how one looks at it. A couple years ago, Tsuna might have flown into hysterics despite the bud of power starting to bloom under his skin. He _still_ wants to panic, familiar cold fingers of anxiety wrapping around his torso, but he’s better at holding it back now. 

In the end, he would rather laugh than scream, allowing the sound to bubble up from the bottom of his throat. 

The boy looks at him like he’s grown a second head.

_“I…it…”_ Tsuna scowls, not able to string together enough words to reply. Finally, he turns to Hayato, “A friend?” 

Despite the tension, Tsuna had not missed the way Hayato let the stranger into his personal space without the promise of pain and death; flying into a rage only after the teen opened his mouth to slander Tsuna’s good name. Hayato always has his back like that. 

“Tch,” The bomber’s glare could melt steel, “No. I don’t hang out with trash like him.” 

Not the entire truth. Tsuna stares. 

Hayato bends. 

“This is Luca Caruso. He was a freelancer like me. We used to work together back in the day,” he begrudgingly offers, “I didn’t expect to run into him here. Shall I kill him for insulting you, Tenth?” 

The dynamite is already out, ready to be lit at a moments notice. Hayato looks all too enthusiastic for someone proposing murder. 

Tsuna gives Hayato his best withering look and it disappears as fast as it comes.

“Nice to meet you, Luca.” He says to the stranger, holding his hand out in the universal gesture of amity. Next to him, Hayato translates in a low voice. “I’m Tsuna. And these are my friends, Takeshi and Ryohei.”

The teen seems taken aback by Tsuna’s mild nature, expression only darkening more in response to the lack of reaction. He glares at the proffered hand, clicks his tongue in a way that’s all too similar to Hayato, and shoves his hands into his pockets. Ok, none of that then. Tsuna takes his own hand back, wrapping it around Hayato’s arm to prevent him from threatening his friend again.

_“Can’t wait to see the Vongola Famiglia finally dethroned,” _Luca drawls with a grin on his face. Whatever he says next to Hayato makes the bomber hiss in anger.

Behind him, Takeshi’s smile is full of teeth. Ryohei watches their body language carefully, mouth turned into a frown. 

_Liar._

Despite the actual threat, Tsuna can’t detect anything actually dangerous behind Luca’s words. He wants to groan and knead his temples, feeling a stress induced headache coming on. _Of course_ Hayato and his former partner-in-crime would be like two peas in a pod, both of them like sulky cats who couldn’t be straight forward with what they wanted. 

“You must have a lot to catch up on,” Tsuna offers lightly, smile lightening his features. Despite the bomber’s harsh words, he knows Luca must not mean nothing to him. For the same reason he and Takeshi fight like cats and dogs, Tsuna sees it now in the animosity traded back and forth between the two. 

Hayato scoffs, “He was just leaving —” and snaps something in rapid Italian to the other teen. Probably more threats.

The teen snaps something back and slinks off. He almost wants to stop Luca, wondering if it would be weird to bring him into the fold of Vongola without actually knowing him, but the teen is already merging in with the crowd, disappearing with such ease that makes Tsuna wonder if he’s a Mist. 

  
  
  


After Hayato reprimands Takeshi and Ryohei for emptying their wallets at the food stalls in the Ballaro Market, the rest of their little vacation goes off without a hitch. He takes them to all the typical tourist spots — through glittering churches, past naked statues. Pauses to let Ryohei gander at all the ‘Extreme architecture.’ For being a meathead, the Boxer is surprisingly enthusiastic about the rustic charm of the city’s ancient design.

More than once, Hayato punches Takeshi for comparing the city to baseball. 

Tsuna stays quiet through most of it, partially overwhelmed by grandiosity of Palermo’s architecture, mostly tired out now that all four of them are together again and the threat of impending doom has been pushed back to another day. He glues himself to his Storm and keeps his eyes trained on his Rain and Sun, letting them wander but only as far as his eye can see. 

By the time the limo is sent to pick them up, Tsuna doesn’t even have it in him to freak out about how flashy all of this is. He shuffles in without question, slumping against a window while his friends continue chattering away. The familiar sound of their voices at full volume are a dissonant lullaby lulling him to sleep. 

  
  
  


He feels the Storm flames before the hand on his shoulder, knowing it’s Hayato and relaxing further before a soft shake demands he open his eyes. 

“Five more minutes,” Tsuna grumbles, curling in on himself. Hesitation, then the shaking becomes more insistent. 

“Should I carry you to your room, Tenth?”

That pries his eyes open. Having no doubt Hayato would do that if he let him, Tsuna pushes his heavy limbs into action, stumbling out of the backseat and into the late afternoon sun.

Takeshi and Ryohei are no where to be seen, already wandered off again. They have a tendency to get lost in the mansion, most likely causing some kind of ruckus along the way. Ryohei had challenged one of the butlers to a boxing match several days ago. Takeshi broke a priceless antique swinging his bat. Headaches for his father to contend with, Tsuna thinks gleefully. He’s never thought of himself as a particularly petty person before, but he can see why someone would want to be.

Not ready to return under the scrutiny of the staff yet, Tsuna turns to Hayato, noticing the bomber popping a handful of nicotine gum in his mouth. The bomber used to chain smoke like a chimney when he was stressed, now he demolishes packet after packet of gum. An improvement, especially considering the amount of explosives he carries on his person. 

From the way his fingers are twitching, Tsuna can guess that Hayato really wants to go for a cigarette right now. And then Takeshi would have to suss out his stash. And then they’d fight and destroy more things. More headaches for his father, but Tsuna would rather not let it get that far. 

“Are you worried?” he starts off at a leisurely pace towards the back of the mansion where the meticulously attended gardens are.

“About what?” The bomber clearly doesn’t want to talk about it. 

“Luca. Your friend.” 

“Tch. Don’t call that trash my friend.” 

“You don’t need to lie, Hayato.” Tsuna puts on what he hopes is a reassuring smile.

The bomber averts his eyes, scowling at the garden path. 

“Would he be interested in joining the Vongola?” He doesn’t know how it’ll work, but he’ll make it happen. If the Vongola can take in seven teenagers and call them its upper echelon, he’s sure it can find a place for one unfortunate freelancer. 

“They won’t want him.” Hayato’s frown is softer now, bitter at the ugly reality.

“Why not? You were a freelancer. Reborn’s a freelancer too, isn’t he?” Tsuna suddenly wonders what kind of history Luca has, if he’s anything like Hayato who had been all alone without support until one fateful summons changed his entire fortune. “He’ll find a place.” 

“No. I mean, Vongola doesn’t recruit just anyone. I don’t think I’ve even heard of them recruiting new soldiers, people don’t just _get in_ to any of the old families like that, Tenth. They’re hardly ever even seen.” Hayato is back to scowling now, frustrated at his own limited knowledge. The underworld, he knows. The Vongola and its allies — old families — might as well have been children’s bedtime stories.

“What does that even mean?” Tsuna’s volume raises a notch without him meaning to. From the reverent way everyone talks about the famiglia, he thought it would have had the entirety of the underworld’s dealings in its iron grip, watching over its serfs from its bloody throne. “Vongola is the biggest, strongest mafia family — that’s what everyone won’t shut up about. What do you mean they’re _‘hardly ever seen.’_”

It’s funny how none of their group really gets along at first glance, merging together like liquids of too many different densities, but somehow they make it work, scrape through rough patches by the skin of their teeth. Always together, never alone. Friends don’t leave each other behind. 

It’s lulled Hayato into a stupid kind of complacency where he completely forgets himself. Roots don’t matter in Japan, where the mafia is a distant, unfathomable future. Where he can revolve around his boss and act like some simulacrum of a right hand man. 

That’s right. Act. Hayato should honestly win an award for his acting. All tall and proud on his boss’s right — one might be fooled into thinking he could actually become something. Confidence bolstered, airs accepted, Hayato fooled himself into thinking he could actually become something. 

It’s different here in Italy. Back on soil stifling in its familiarity, Hayato is reminded of everything he’s not. He’s the Hurricane Bomb, born with a silver spoon in his mouth, unloved and unwanted. 

How presumptuous of him to think he could ever be more. 

“Forget it,” Hayato snaps, turning away so he doesn’t have to see confusion spread across the Tenth’s face. He knows it’s the stress getting to him, phantom voices reminding him of what he will never, ever be. 

A rational part of him tells him to walk away. Wait for the storm to blow over then come back. 

Yeah, he thinks bitterly, and tell the mafia to sit tight and wait for him to get over himself while he’s at it. That will blow over well. 

“While you’re at it, maybe you should find a new right hand man too.” Hayato’s mouth moves before his brain can catch up. But he should know by now that good things never last. 

“Hayato, what?” His boss — the poor kid — sounds completely lost. 

He opens his mouth to explain. Everything will soon be clear, and then they can finally move on from this chapter of their lives, four fucking years too late. Leave it to him to waste all that time. 

“No.” The Tenth cuts him off before he can continue. A small hand grips his arm with a strength that belies those delicate bones. “Absolutely not. Whatever you’re telling yourself, it’s not true.”

He wants a cigarette. He wants a fight. At least Hayato can trust his body to know what to do, the motions of warfare second nature after all they’ve been through. He couldn’t throw himself at the funeral of an old man; and he can’t throw himself at the person who plucked him out of his depressing hole of a life and gave him a future.

Hayato feels awfully lacking these days. 

“You don’t understand, Tenth!” Hayato turns away so he doesn’t have to see those empathetic eyes. He’s glad no one else is around to see him punch the wall closest to him. The aged brick digs deep, tearing his knuckles apart in a way that’s wholly satisfying. Behind him, the Tenth hisses as if his boss was the one who just had his first torn open by brick and mortar.

“I don’t know anything,” Hayato continues, ramming his other fist into the wall for good measure. “The Vongola… Giglio Nero — I don’t know anything about them. They’re on a different level than what I had access to on the streets and —” Rage and frustration takes over, robbing his words. His emotions tear a feral sound from his throat, fist hitting the wall a few more times for good measure. 

Hayato turns around, letting the wall hold him up as he searches for the courage to face his boss. When he finally finds it in him to look up, he sees the Tenth frowning at him, expression unreadable but his brain is good at filling in the blanks. 

Yes, it supplies, this is it. Finally they reach the end of this farce. 

Hayato thinks he knows what’s coming but that doesn’t stop him from tensing up as he’s approached. Each soft step the Tenth takes closes the distance between them and brings him closer to his execution. 

With only inches between them, the Tenth reaches out slowly, _so slowly_, and picks up one of his bruised hands. Silently, he picks at the torn knuckles, pulling out bits of stone and dirt. Hayato doesn’t know how long they stand there: his boss deathly silent as he examines the self-inflicted wounds; him silent, heart pounding, breath held as he waits for the final verdict. 

“Unless you decide you’re done with the mafia and want a normal life —” the Tenth’s voice is so small, Hayato has to lean in to hear it — “You’re stuck with me.” 

“Sorry,” his boss continues, like the prospect of being his underling is truly that terrible; as if Hayato wouldn’t burn the world down for this man. “I would really like it if you would remain my right hand man. None of us know what we’re doing either.” 

Hayato feels his throat close up, choking out the words trying to bubble up to the surface. The storm within him doesn’t stop raging, but he could see the eye of it now, the circle of harmony wrapped around his Sky.

“I just don’t want you to regret it.” 

Hayato pulls his hands away. His boss steps out of his personal space. 

“Never,” Hayato manages to choke, heavy with conviction. Hayato wants to believe it, tries to believe it. Doesn’t quite succeed but it’s enough for now, burying an ugly monster of doubt deep within him.

The Tenth gives him a blinding smile, even though he’s done nothing to earn it. What a man; truly too good for this world. For the umpteenth time, Hayato pledges silently to himself to do everything he can to preserve the light in those eyes. He’s been around long enough to know how dark the underworld gets and he’s determined not to see that bright fire smothered under the force of its foul machinations. 

“I’m glad.” There’s a smile in his voice. 

The Tenth spins on his heel abruptly, hasty steps lengthening the distance between them.

Hayato wonders what kind of expression the man might be hiding in that stilted stride. Nothing bad, he reminds himself vehemently. _They are a family._

The magic of the moment is broken when his boss trips. Hayato reacts before he’s even had time to fully comprehend what just happened, appearing at the Tenth’s side in record speed to help him off the uneven ground. 

Warmth spreads across his chest. Some things never change. 

The Tenth laughs out an apology. “Let’s find the others before they make too much trouble.” 

For once, Hayato wholeheartedly agrees. 

  
  
  


The pair find the rest of their group on the lower level of the East Wing. 

It comes as a surprise — almost complete silence surround them as they approach the parlour that had been designated as their temporary lounge. Tsuna’s friends are a rowdy bunch. Even though his intuition does not flare, Tsuna thinks something must be wrong for them to be so quiet. Noise means all is well. Quietude is the calm before a terrible storm —

Or it’s just Chrome keeping them in check. 

Tsuna and Hayato arrive to see the three crowded around a coffee table immersed in a game of poker. 

Takeshi has that smile on his face — all teeth and no mercy. He’s not giving in without a fight. 

On the opposite spectrum, Ryohei’s face is twisted in absolute concentration. Tsuna can see the steam rising out of his ears as he works his brain to a mush. Poor guy.

Across from them, Chrome is the picture of serenity. As she should be; though he’s never actually proven it, Tsuna is convinced she glamours her cards into a rainbow of winning hands, pulling off just enough wins to rob her opponents blind. 

Takeshi’s grin widens in triumph, proudly putting down his cards to reveal four of a kind.

Poor Ryohei flings his cards haphazardly away and face plants audibly onto the hardwood table, groaning in frustration. 

Chrome gives them her patented smile and reveals her hand: a royal flush.

The clank of metal fills the room as Takeshi and Ryohei each push their remaining pile of spoons and forks into Chrome’s enormous pile. Tsuna’s not going to ask where they found so much silverware; he’s just glad they’re not betting around Lambo’s arsenal of guns and explosive. 

“What do we owe you, Chrome?” Takeshi concedes defeat. 

She doesn’t have to think about it. 

“Let’s get go to the bakery with Kyoko, Hana, and Haru when we get home.” Chrome has that shy smile on her face, still not over the fact that the girls have formed an unbreakable bond over the years. 

Tsuna can’t help the relaxed smile spreading over his own features. His Mist guardian is so good, so pure; the one person in this madhouse that isn’t trying to drive him to an early grave. 

(He’s going to eat those words some day, he knows it.)

“You guys should know better than to play against Chrome by now,” Tsuna laughs as he enters the room. He, being the smart one for once, gave up winning years ago when Reborn first spent a rainy summer day teaching them the game. 

_“Mafioso should have skills other than fighting, otherwise they’d be dull,”_ he said, to everyone but Tsuna’s excitement, and proceeded to pit them against each other in a brutal punishment game. 

“I’ll beat you someday!” Ah, Takeshi, ever the bastion of determination. The only one ever to really give Chrome a run for her money was Mukuro, but at that point, it was obviously more a battle of wills than a poker game. And when those two team up… Tsuna shudders at the thought. 

“You two want to join for another round?” The three of them start splitting the silverware again. 

Tsuna shakes his head, curling up in a chair near by to watch their valiant efforts against Chrome. 

Hayato makes his way over, taking a seat between Takeshi and Chrome, scowling at each of his fellow guardians in turn as he starts plotting. That usually means he’s thought of a new strategy to use against them. This should be interesting.

Who knew his rowdy guardians would be so taken in by a card game. Tsuna is going to be sad when poker loses its shine and they go back to being at each other’s throats. 

There’s a certain serenity to listening to them play. The rumble of voices, the sound of cards being passed back and forth, the feeling of safety that comes with being around family he trusts completely are a balm on his strained senses. Tsuna finds his eyes drooping again, nodding off in the comfortable chair. 

He probably shouldn’t be napping in the middle of the day lest Reborn find him and decide he needs more training to keep him busy but Tsuna hasn’t slept well since Nono died so he’ll take what he can get.

  
  
  


Tsuna wakes to the insistent tug of his hyper intuition. He tries to resist it, curling into the soft blanket someone had draped over him at some point but it only becomes more insistent, like a small animal gnawing a hole in the back of his skull. 

He cracks one eye, then the other, scanning the room for whatever sparked his sixth sense. Instead he sees his family milling around the room, each of them wandered off from their card game to a different activity in silence. 

The sight of them warms his heart. It’s only a fraction of his family, the rest of his friends staying behind in Namimori (and staying out of the mafia) for their own reasons. They’re a lot more than he had a couple years ago and now he can’t imagine life without them, each of them colouring a part of his monochrome life until his world was bursting with vivid hues.

It’s too bad peace never lasts. 

A polite knock on the door draws everyone’s attention. His hyper intuition rings a loud warning at the sight of Maria letting herself into their temporary haven. 

She wisely hovers by the door, gracefully curtsying before turning to Tsuna: “Your father wishes to see you, _Decimo._” 

Tsuna slowly extracts himself from the blanket, careful to not tangle and make a fool of himself. He takes his time rolling kinks out of his neck and shoulders, stretching his legs, frowning at his crumpled clothes. Maybe he should change first. 

“And only you,” she adds hastily when his friends put their things down to get up and follow. Maria’s eyes dart around his guardians, clearly wary of their response. 

“Whatever he has to say to me, he can say it in front of my friends, too.” Tsuna frowns, not liking the sound of that. His friends agree with his apprehension — he feels the heat of four other flame signatures send out warning flares. 

“He specifically said only you. Your guardians are to remain in the East Wing. Those are my orders.” 

They’re all surprised when a fifth flame signature mixes in, Maria’s eyes taking on a light blue tone. Tsuna never would have guess the mild mannered maid was flame active. She’s subtle, trying to weave light wisps of rain along his guardians’ agitated flames. There’s a certain edge to her now that he can see it, something that whispers _dangerous. _

It reminds him a little of Chrome: delicate on the outside maybe, but brimming with monstrous potential. 

His guardians clearly notice, all of them raring for a fight. They’re all waiting for something — for Maria to make the first move maybe, or for Tsuna to similarly take up arms against his father’s messenger. 

He’s way too tired for this.

“Fine,” Tsuna snaps to the protest of his friends around him. “They’ll know as soon I get back anyway.”

He can tell it’s not because Iemitsu doesn’t want them to know; his father is testing out the shiny new spine Reborn spent the past four years installing in his back, poking and prodding to see where Tsuna’s soft spots are, learning where to hit to make him bend. The man probably thinks part of his confidence comes from the power of his friends’ unquestioning support. In the past, sure, Tsuna would have folded many times over had they not been encouraging, but he’s not that scared little boy anymore. Tsuna’s still not quite ready to take on the world yet, but Iemitsu isn’t the world. 

Following Maria down the ornate hallways, Tsuna still feels the absence of his friends, wishing for the comfort of companionship to soothe his nerves. Trusting Maria to lead him where he needs to be is weird, not that she would betray him, but he hasn’t needed his foreign shadow since Hayato touched down on Italian soil.

They turn down long, busy hallways, everyone stopping to watch as they make their way across the mansion to the large double doors the guard Nono’s office. Tsuna wonders if he should start thinking of it as his office now but _Decimo’s office_ doesn’t have the same ring to it. 

Maria knocks once, knocks twice, holds the door open for Tsuna when a voice beyond gives them permission to enter, and leaves him standing alone in a den of snakes. 

Iemitsu is sitting behind the big mahogany desk, Coyote Nougat next to him. Reborn is keeping the wall up across the room, fedora pulled low over his eyes to hide his expression but Tsuna can read displeasure in the dip of his frown. If he looks carefully, Tsuna thinks he can also see tension in the set of Coyote’s shoulders. 

_Anger, _he thinks. Iemitsu is trying to run this show and no one’s happy about it. Tsuna can work with that. 

“My precious Tuna-fishy!” 

Tsuna suppresses the urge to groan. He’s eighteen and his father still sees a child standing before him.

“We’ve been discussing how to best hand the reins of the family over to you —”

You’re not ready to take over completely, he hears between the syllables of Iemitsu’s deep baritone. Tsuna bites his lip, hates that the man isn’t wrong. On some level, he even agrees. He’s wholly unprepared, the years of denial making him nothing but a soft newcomer to the underworld. The other part of him whispers that Iemitsu just wants a puppet to carry on his own illicit dealings, and if he has to install his own son in the seat of power then so be it. 

The thought sets Tsuna aflame with rage.

“— and we’ve decided,” Iemitsu continues, undaunted by the array of emotions passing through his son’s face, “That you should learn the ropes from the bottom and work your way up.”

Tsuna’s breath hitches, unable to hide the shock flaring across his face as his mind races. What kind of heinous crimes would his father have him commit to indoctrinate him within the mafia? Extortion? Contract killing? Drugs? Each possibility strikes worse than the last and Tsuna feels sick. Somehow committing actual crime never crossed his mind, childishly expecting his family to keep him away from the darkest parts of the mafia. killing, he expected, eventually – but only for those who deserved it. (and who was he to play judge, jury, and executioner?) this…

“You’re going to make me a killer? A drug dealer?!” He can’t help the way his voice comes out in a high pitched shriek. Oh no, he’s really panicking now. Numbness seeps into his extremities and it’s getting harder to breathe past the knot forming in his throat. “You’re going to make my friends into criminals?” 

Somehow that second thought is leagues worse than the first.

He looks to the other adults for support. Someone has to oppose this madness. 

The silent presence of Coyote Nougat behind Iemitsu means he’s already conceded to whatever the CEDEF leader is plotting, resigned to let the man run the family in all but name while Tsuna searches for his footing. Tsuna feels bile splash in the back of his throat. It’s always famiglia over family with his father.

He doesn’t know why he expects Reborn to be on his side — the hitman never had any qualms about putting civilian children into situations meant for adults — but it hurts the most when the only sign Reborn has anything against his father’s ruling is the fact that his frown is getting deeper. 

No help then. It’s all on him.

Tsuna pulls on his flames and they respond with surprising force. He usually needs dying will pills to get them to manifest this much but now they gather readily around him, a monster waiting to be unleashed. 

Another sky flame touches his, the taste of harmony like a kick in his throat. There are voices around him but Tsuna isn’t listening anymore. His flames roar in response to his escalating feelings, following the intrusion back to their user and lash out like a feral animal. 

There’s yelling in the distance. The blur of something orange and flailing. A flash of red trying to extinguish his light. 

That only makes him burn brighter. 

“_-una. Tsuna._ Tsuna!” Reborn’s voice filters into his ears like a picture coming into focus. Tsuna surfaces out of the blanket of his flames like a drowning man gasping for air. 

“Calm down,” Reborn snaps, voice strangely strained. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard the hitman actually have to exert effort before. 

Tsuna considers lighting his flame again and punching Reborn in the face. It won’t work, obviously, but maybe it’ll piss the man off enough to light him up on the spot. Can’t become Don Vongola if he’s a pile of ash. The thought pulls a weak giggle from him that sounds more like a timid squeak. 

“It’s not what you think, idiot.” Reborn flicks him in the center of his forehead. His eyes refocus on the room and the individuals within it. 

The look on Coyote’s face is unreadable. Shock and hurt fly across Iemitsu’s face and Tsuna notes that he’s more than a little bit singed. They all look like they’ve been running through a burning building, Iemitsu being the most unfortunate out of all of them. The office isn’t in much better shape. Covered in scorch marks, the expensive carpeting is all but disintegrated. Nono is going to need a new desk. 

Tsuna has never lost control of his flames like this before, and he should be more concerned about it, but he can’t bring himself to care at the moment. He has to suppress a wide grin at Iemitsu’s burnt chicken look, glad that someone other than him is also having a bad day. Their eyes meet across the room, unbending orange against stunned hazel. Tsuna steels his resolve. He won’t do it. Absolutely not. 

Next to him, Reborn sighs, casting Iemitsu a thunderous look as if to say, _‘told you so.’_ The hitman is surrounded by all too many idiots these days. 

“I think it’s time, No Good Tsuna —” Reborn’s grim countenance silences the protest building on his lips— “that you learn what Vongola really does.”

**Author's Note:**

> A big thanks to [Judgement](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Judgement/pseuds/Judgement) for keeping me sane. I don't deserve her.


End file.
